


Give Your Heart and Soul to Me

by MistahJay (CassLikesFic)



Series: Gotham's Finest [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cisswap, Developing Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderswap, Pegging, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-08 08:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21232691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/MistahJay
Summary: Joker is not just amused by Harley anymore. She is protective of him, fiercely. She wants to make sure she's giving him what he needs - love and neglect, tenderness and cruelty in perfect, delicate balance. She wants to subject him to chaos so she can see him bask in the eye of a storm. And she wants this indefinitely.It's a game with ever shifting rules that he always seems to learn faster than she can change them.She loves him.They need to talk about this.She threatens to blow up the Wayne Hotel.It makes perfect sense.





	Give Your Heart and Soul to Me

Joker thinks about the hitch in Harley's breathing as he sleeps, weak limbed and vulnerable in her arms. She thinks about the way he tucks his head into the crook of her neck and sighs with exhaustion and gratitude when she says he can stay. She thinks about the way that he waits in the doorway like a shadow, searching for any sign that it's over, that she's bored, that he isn't enough. She thinks about the way the light catches in the tears in the corners of his eyes.

Joker is not just amused by Harley anymore. She is protective of him, fiercely. She wants to make sure she's giving him what he needs - love and neglect, tenderness and cruelty in perfect, delicate balance. She wants to subject him to chaos so she can see him bask in the eye of a storm. And she wants this indefinitely.

It's a game with ever shifting rules that he always seems to learn faster than she can change them.  


She loves him.

They need to talk about this.

She threatens to blow up the Wayne Hotel.

It makes perfect sense.

Harley arrives ten minutes early, fresh scrubbed and strung as tight as a bowstring. Not because of the potential for C4 under the marble tile of the restaurant, but because he doesn't see her. Always so eager to please, a compass always drawn to her North. No matter where the path takes him. He's holding roses, in her colors. It looks like a handful of flame.

“I didn’t think Bruce Wayne would mind if we took his table,” Joker says from behind him, startling and reassuring him with one simple action. He dressed for the occasion, but he apparently didn't expect her to do the same if the stunned expression is any indication. She's going to teach him to know his worth someday, even if she has to break him to do it. “Are those for me? How sweet.” Joker presses a soft kiss to his cheek, leaving a bloody print, and takes the roses.  _ Mine, mine, mine,  _ the red mark says _ . _ She makes a show of inhaling their fragrance. Her clowns bring her bullets and weapons and tightly rolled wads of cash. Her Harlequin brings her an offering of flowers, hands shaking slightly as he passes them over.

“You look beautiful,” Quinn says as she pulls out a chair for him. She wants him to sit so she can touch him without reaching up. It takes only the slightest pressure from her hands and he sinks into the chair obligingly. “What’s the occasion?”

“Do I need one?” Joker trails her fingertips along the freshly shaven skin of his jaw. He follows her touch like a flower chasing the sun. She rewards him with the lightest graze of her fingernails and he shivers for her.

“No." It's a new word from him, tantalizing. She likes the sound of it in his mouth. Not as much as the way he breathes yes, but still. "You don’t need one,” he amends softly in the pause, gazing up at her. Anticipating swift retribution, perhaps.

“You can tell me no,” Joker replies, ignoring the rest of his response. She's not sure if she's bestowing permission, or expressing her interest in the way that pretty mouth shapes his refusal.

“No,” Quinn says again. She watches him taste the word, testing it carefully. Yes, she likes that. She likes knowing he's not a doll - pull the right string and get the same three responses.  _ Yes _ and  _ please _ and  _ I'm sorry _ . She needs to keep him. She needs him to want to be kept. She starts slowly, tone soft, the way she gentles the hyenas she keeps chained in the club.

“Are you happy, Harley?”

“...do you want me to be?” He's very careful, too careful. Making up for his earlier  _ no.  _ But it isn't the truth, or not enough truth for her to be satisfied.

“Hmm.” Joker taps her nails against the side of her wine glass. It makes a soft sound under her nails. It reminds her of the way Harley responds to her touch and makes her give him a small half smile. “I want you to be honest.”

“When I’m with you, I’m happy.” She thinks about the worry in his eyes when he waits in the doorway. She thinks about the way he talks about his life outside of a room with her. She sees the shadows lingering behind his eyes and wants to draw them out and deepen them.  _ Let me keep you.  
_

“And when you’re not with me?” Careful, careful. Like loading a gun. Like wiring a bomb.

“When I’m not with you, I think I’m going crazy.” She hates that word, loves it, has made it a part of her. Who isn't crazy, in this town? Who doesn't keep a small, hard pebble of madness in their pocket, rolling it around in their fingers as they walk the dirty streets. Everyone has a mask they hide behind. If that makes them all crazy...well.

“We’re all crazy."  _ You're not crazy for wanting me. I made you do it and you obeyed beautifully. _ She covers his hand with hers, reassuring, possessive. He fears her, craves her touch, returns over and over. But… "Do you love me, Harley?”  


His eyes widen, and the flush that bleeds up his throat and over his face, the slight hitch of his breath isn't enough of an answer. She waits.

“Yes,” he breathes, soft as a prayer. It's the same satisfying feeling as a full magazine sliding home in a well known gun. You can do a lot with an unloaded gun, but the bullets complete it. Make it whole.

“Would you do anything for me?”  _ Let me chain and collar you like one of my beasts. Stay by my side, never leave me again. Follow me as my echo, my shadow. Let me hear your desperate laughter, your begging. Let me lick the tears from your face and savor their salt.  _ The pause stretches too long as he considers his answer.

“...no.” She’s not sure if she likes this one as much as the others. It has the resignation of a key turning in a lock, of walking away. Of funding being cut, services disappearing. A world going dirty and gray.

“What won't you do for me?”  _ Better to know. Better to know now where the line is drawn. _

“I won’t kill for you. Hurt innocent people. I won’t steal.” He thinks she sees him as one of her goons. Perhaps he thinks he’s one in a string of equally interchangeable playthings. Replaceable, disposable.  _ Oh, no, my darling boy. No one makes me smile the way you do. _

“Harley. I have clowns for that. You’re  _ different _ .” The look of painful relief washing over his features makes her laugh brightly. She’s not innocent in his mind, she can’t be, and so she needs to know. “Would you hurt  _ me _ ?”

“Never.” Another new word, and her smile widens. Oh, this is a fun game, now. Surely there’s a give there. Never is far too absolute, with the taste of denial at the edges. Every man has his fantasies, alone in his head where he thinks no one sees.

"What if I  _ wanted _ you to? Asked you to pin me down, have me the way you thought you would that first time, leave marks? Bruise me a little." Her voice is teasing, playful, a little conspiratorial. She leans forward, wants to see his reaction to that idea. "Just a little bruise, where no one would see it. You've thought about leaving a  _ little _ bruise." A little bruise, sucked onto her skin with teeth and tongue. High up on her thigh, so close but so far away.

"That's not how I think about touching you." _There. _**_Yes._** She gazes at him intently, narrows her eyes just a little. He’s thought about breaking those beautiful, unwritten rules, razor sharp and lying between them every time. "No- I mean-" She wants to see his eyes. She wants _details_. Dirty and eloquent. She slips a single fingertip under his chin, lifting it with the slightest pressure. A muscle in his cheek jumps.

"Tell me."

“I can’t-” Lots of refusal and defiance tonight. She’s not sure what he thinks is happening. She’s not sure she cares, but she’s tired of this part of the game. She drops her hand and his chin follows, but he keeps his eyes on her face.

“You will.” She takes a small sip of her champagne. It sits, sharp and sweet and effervescent on her tongue. She swallows and he shifts in his seat, watching her throat work. “You will because I want to know. And you want to make me happy.” That’s safe enough, a murmured confession he’s said over and over. Can’t follow the rules if you don’t know what they are, can you?

“I don’t know where to start.” He’s not lying or deflecting - there’s raw honesty there, with an edge of anxiety. What if he has the wrong fantasy, and she punishes him for it? Joker hasn’t truly punished Harley, not yet, but she’s tasting the potential in the air and she likes it.

"Close your eyes,” she says softly, reaching across the table to lightly brush her fingertips over his eyelids. Guiding him gently. “When I’m not in front of you, where do you go?”  _ How do you touch me, inside your head? Where do you let your hands linger? _

“Back to you,” he says softly.

“Always back to me?” Her thumb brushes the corner of his mouth. Such a beautiful mouth. She’s never seen it stretched around her cock, but she’s curious now. She wonders if he’d be good. He knows to be slick and ready, but was that a whim, or past experience talking? Would he need guidance, or take to it like everything else - grace and skill, and willingness to learn how she likes things.

“Always. You’ve given me lots of good memories. I go back to them.”  


“Which one is your favorite?” She thinks of her favorites, but won’t share them.  


“The first time. I think about the first time a lot.” He wets his lips with his tongue and she feels that temptation to fill his mouth again. She liked the way he lapped the paint off the pad of her tongue, that first time.

“We’ve had better times.”  


“Yeah, but I didn’t know your rules the first time. It was… Different. You taught me what you wanted.” She wasn’t aware she’s shown him she wanted anything. She wants to hear it from his lips.

“What do you think I wanted, Harley?”

“I still don’t know. But you taught me how to give it to you.” He does give her what she wants, before she knows she wants it. She loves his fearless trembling, his obedience, his utter abandon. She thinks about the way he knelt at her feet that first time and offered himself. She thinks about the way she tore up his expectations and scattered them to the wind. She thinks about the look on his face when she smeared her paint over his mouth for the first time and thought  _ mine. _

“How do you give me what I want?”

“I say yes when I mean it. I don’t lie. I take what you give me, I...say thank you when you make me grateful. I-I try to be good for you. I apologize when I’m not.” His brow furrows in concentration, reading off the list of unwritten rules. He does all of these things, and more. “But you want something. You must. Why would you keep doing this?”  _ One of the rules is, you don’t ask this. _ But she should return some of his beautiful vulnerability with the truth.  


“Because you let me,” Joker answers, equally softly. She wants him off guard - his eyes are sharp, behind that gentle, loving gaze. He sees her as clearly as she sees him. She lifts her foot, nudges his knee to the side, and rests the ball of her foot between his legs, a dangerous promise. "Because I like how much you enjoy letting me. You get my jokes, Harley."

"You haven't told me any." She thinks of the way his mouth opens in a disbelieving, grateful gasp when she slides inside for the first time. As though he can’t believe he’s lucky enough for this to happen. As though every time he thinks,  _ this is the only time I’ll ever have this. _ She thinks of her greasepaint staining his uniform. About asking for more and more of his time, until he starts thinking of the ruined uniform as the one he’s most comfortable wearing. She thinks of a Gotham Police officer, in love with her. And her in love with him.

"I've heard you laugh with me." Her foot presses down more firmly, the sharp point of the heel bruising his inner thigh. Reminding him of all the other times. "I like making you laugh."

"You make me cry, too." Oh, yes. Laughter. Tears. Both are beautiful. Both are hers.

"I like doing a lot of things to you." There are things she wants to do. There are so many things, but she won't do them and send him back out onto the streets afterwards. So many things she’d do, if she didn’t have to let him go afterwards. "I want to see you naked, Harley." She never has, and it's suddenly the most important thing. Strip him, leave him nothing to hide behind. She kicks the chair leg beneath him in a sharp gesture. So that he knows in no uncertain terms that  _ I want  _ means  _ now. _ Quinn manages to catch himself on the table edge, glass and silverware rattling.  


"What about dinner?" he chokes out, hands tight on the tablecloth. Joker had never even planned on serving food. It’s a delay tactic, and one she doesn’t appreciate.

"Apparently the kitchen staff all left when  _ someone _ threatened to blow the restaurant up. Terrible service. Now stop stalling and strip."Joker snaps her fingers at him, sharply. She’s impatient. She wants to see all of him, bare and defenseless. Reaches across the table and takes Quinn's untouched glass, raising it in a mocking toast. "And fold your clothes. This is a nice restaurant; don't make a mess." She doesn’t care what he does with his clothes, but it’s important to develop good habits. If she tells him once, he’ll do it every time. She takes a dainty sip of the champagne, her eyes flinty.

"What if you don't like what you see?" As if that were possible.

"I will." Joker smiles at him slowly over the rim of her glass. "You're pretty when you're nervous, but you're prettier when you beg. The sooner I see you, the sooner I can decide what I'm going to do with you."  _ Hitch up this dress and ride you on the floor while I make you say you're mine, all mine. Draw white lines over your bare skin with an abandoned knife worth a month's rent. Make you tell me everything. Everything. Never let you go again. _

Each piece of clothing gone sheds more of his defenses. Joker understands that this striptease is for himself as much as for her. She gives him the time to choose to remove each piece of clothing, reveal more skin. She watches carefully, making note of scars, muscle made lean by too much work and not enough food. She sees every imperfection, every scratch. It’s all perfect. His muscles tense, ready for a fight. She watches his chest rise and fall with uneven rhythm, the pulse in his throat too fast, too near the surface. Her hands itch with the desire to touch. She stands, circles him slowly, lets him feel her looking at him.

"I feel like I  _ should _ tease you about how difficult that was, but I don't think it would be funny," she murmurs, trailing her nails over the freckled skin of his shoulders. His cock twitches eagerly from that one touch, slick at the head. If she wrapped a hand around him now and  _ squeezed _ , he’d be gone. "I've done worse to you." But has she? Has she ever truly demanded he reveal this much of himself and let her study it all, critically, weighing every flaw and each confession?

"Not like this," Quinn says hoarsely, letting his hair fall over his eyes. She lets him hide.

"No, not like this," she whispers. Her fingertips rest on an old scar on his upper arm - a bullet graze. She feels an incandescent flash of rage. How dare anyone attempt to take him from her. There are going to be quiet questions in back alleys later - questions asked at a knife’s point. She’ll find whose bullet that was and return it. "You haven't been careful, Harley," she says quietly.

"It's part of the job."  


"I could make sure no one ever hurts you but me." The words slip out like her laughter sometimes does - without her say so. Sometimes things just...happen. Her hands comb through his hair, tightening just enough to make him gasp. She likes the line of his throat, bared and vulnerable. "I could  _ keep _ you."  _ Keep you, keep you, make you mine. _

"Do you want to?" No. She doesn’t want a question answered with a question. She wants to hear yes. If he can’t tell her, he’ll show her.

"You're going to kiss me," she says, her voice deadly and sharp. "And if I like it, maybe I'll tell you."

She doesn’t know what kiss she’s expecting. She’s always kissed him, and he’s kept his tongue in his mouth like a good boy. Following the rule that  _ she  _ has  _ him _ , not the other way around. He licks into her mouth, tongue wet and nimble and she feels her body respond in kind. Oh, she’d risk it. For that mouth between her legs, she’d risk letting him put his mouth on soft, vulnerable flesh, not wrapped around fingers or a toy. His lips are hard and fierce, his fingers tight in her hair in return. A perfect mirror. For a moment, she understands why he yields so completely. There’s something dark and safe in his eyes, a threat. If she keeps him, he’ll keep her in return. She weighs that option, breathing slow and steady when he breaks the kiss.

"Keep me," he begs.

It hits her in the heart. He can’t unfire that bullet.  


“Yes _ . _ ” Her voice is as wrecked as his.

They never do eat dinner.


End file.
